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FIELD, Issue 18, Spring 1978 FIELD d’Hiver Plaisir - Schlittein FIELD CONTEMPORARY POETRY AND POETICS NUMBER IS SPRING 1978 PUBLISHED BY OBERLIN COLLEGE OBERLIN, OHIO EDITORS Stuart Friebert David Young A5S0CIA.TE Patricia Ikeda EDITORS Alberta Turner David Walker ED1T0R1A.L Reina Calderon ASSISTANT COVER Steve Parkas FIELD gratefully acknowledges support from the Ohio Arts Council, the Coordinating Council of Literary Magazines, and Laurence Perrine. Published twice yearly by Oberlin College. Subscriptions: $4.00 a year / $7.00 for two years until JULY 1, 1978. Thereafter we are forced to announce this rate increase: $5.00 a year / $8.00 for two years / Single issues of this past year only, $2.50 postpaid. Back issues 1-9; 11-16: $10.00. Is- sue 10 is out of print. Subscription orders and manuscripts should be sent to FIELD, Rice Hall, Oberlin College, Oberlin, Ohio 44074. Manuscripts will not be returned unless accompanied by a stamped, self- addressed envelope. Copyright © 1978 by Oberlin College. CONTENTS Russell Edson 5 The falling Out of Bed Series 6 The Wounded Breakfast 7 The Unforgiven 8 The Traffic 9 The Doorway Trap Richard Hugo 10 Sneosdal Liza Tucker 12 Anna Akhmatova's "Northern Elegies" Anna Akhmatova 15 Northern Elegies 21 "It was frightful . Norman Dubie 22 The Composer's Winter Dream Denise Levertov 26 Blake's Baptismal Font Dennis Schmitz 27 The Feast of Tabernacles 29 Infinitives 30 Mile Hill Rainer Brambach 31 Going Home 32 Poor Prospects for Drinkers 33 Sung Landscape 33 Under Appletrees 34 Beyond Rjeka W. S. Merwin 35 Sheep Clouds Jean Valentine 38 Silences: A Dream of Governments 39 December 21st Alberta Turner 40 Poets Teaching: A Selection Marvin Bell 41 Perhaps Here William Stafford 49 The Minuet Albert Goldbarth 57 Confusing But Never Confused Jane Cooper 64 On The Making of Three Poems Margaret Atwood 74 The Woman Who Could Not Live With Her Faulty Heart 76 The Woman Makes Peace With Her Faulty Heart 78 Nasturtium 80 Dust Giovanni Raboni 82 The Dead and the True 83 Pontius P. 84 Bad Year 85 Christmas Morning 86 The Colonial Error 87 Afternoon Movies William Stafford 88 School Days Shirley Kaufman 89 Shells 90 Lawrence at Taos Robert Ely 93 Rilke's Book of Hours Rainer Maria Rilke 95 "1 have a lot of brothers ...” .” 96 "You see, 1 want a lot . 97 "1 can hardly believe that this tiny death ...” 98 "The kings of the world are growing .” old . 99 "It's possible 1 am pushing through solid rock ...” Sandra McPherson 100 Dependence on Flowers 102 Sensing: Stories for a Deaf Friend Larry Levis 105 The Ownership of the Night 109 Contributors 4 Russell Edson THE FALLING OUT OF BED SERIES A man had fallen out of bed, but the floor just wouldn't support it, and he fell through the kitchen ceiling and the kitchen floor into the cellar . His mother called, what do you think you're doing? Falling out of bed, he called from the cellar. Well, why don't you do it like a gentleman? Do you have to pull the whole house down? she called. I'll try to be more careful next time, he called from the cellar. Well, 1 should hope so, she called, because that's one sure measure of the gentleman, how he falls out of bed. I said I'd try to be more careful next time, so will you please stop rubbing it in? he called from the cellar. But you keep doing the same thing, she called, your father for all the times he's fallen out of bed has never fallen through the floor, not once; a perfect gentleman. All right, all right, I've had a few pieces of bad luck, but does that mean I'm always going to be unlucky? he called from the cellar. A gentleman makes his luck; a gentleman can sense when things are about to be unlucky and holds to his mattress to keep from falling out of bed, until he can do it in a gentlemanly way, called his mother. All right, all right. I'll try, he called from the cellar. A gentleman doesn't try, a gentleman does; trying is only the excuse of the failure who tries, but always fails, called his mother. Okay, okay, don't rub it in, called her son from the cellar. just to say that I will expect more of you next time, which means I still have faith in you, and still think you can fall out of bed like a gentleman; your father used to be a whiz at it, called his mother. Okay, okay, rub it in, called her son . from the cellar . 5 THE WOUNDED BREAKFAST A huge shoe mounts up from the horizon, squealing and grinding forward on small wheels, even as a man sitting to breakfast on his veranda is suddenly engulfed in a great shad- ow almost the size of the night. He looks up and sees a huge shoe ponderously mounting out of the earth. Up in the unlaced ankle-part an old woman stands at a helm behind the great tongue curled forward; the thick laces dragging like ships' rope on the ground as the huge thing squeals and grinds forward; children everywhere, they look from the shoelace holes, they crowd about the old woman, even as she pilots this huge shoe over the earth . Soon the huge shoe is descending the opposite horizon, a monstrous snail squealing and grinding into the earth . The man turns to his breakfast again, but sees it's been wounded, the yolk of one of his eggs is bleeding . 6 THE UNFORGIVEN After a series of indiscretions a man stumbled homeward, thinking, now that I am going down from my misbehavior I am to be forgiven, because how I acted was not the true self, which I am now returning to; and I'm not to be blamed for the past, because I am to be seen as one redeemed in the pres- ent . But when he got to the threshold of his house his house said, go away, I am not at home. Not at home? A house is always at home, where else can it be? said the man. I am not at home to you, said his house. And so the man stumbled away into another series of in- discretions, thinking, because my house doesn't forgive me I am given special license to return to an ongoing series of in- discretions . 7 THE TRAFFIC A dog is making its way in a road on its back, shrugging and twisting to make its way forward. Also a man bobbing along on his head and hands; lifting himself on his hands and falling forward on his head. Then an automobile on its roof, its wheels in the air; people inside pushing it forward, inch by inch, with fishing poles. Also an old woman on her back asleep, slowly pushing herself forward with her feet . All this traffic, what does it mean? An athletic event up ahead? Perhaps even a dance . ? 8 THE DOORWAY TRAP A man came to a full-length mirror, which he took to be a doorway, and saw another man about to enter out from the other side, and as he tried to avoid the other man the other man tried to avoid him, allowing neither of the men to pass. The first man said. Pm afraid we've been caught in the doorway trap; just as I think to move to the left you move to your right. Right from your point of view is left in my point of view; so is left from your intimacy right in my personalized un- derstanding of the universe. If we would both move to our re- spective rights then we would both be moved to the respective left of the other, and thus be able to pass out of the doorway trap. But no, our reflexes are too slow; just as you correct the vector of your advance I am correcting mine, and we end up face to face and have to start again. All this because we don't want any contact with the other, which is the secret of our imprisonment, we imprison each other, paradoxically, by trying to avoid the other. I lunge to the left, you lunge to the right, we meet face to face, embarrassed. We try again, trying to outguess the other, and again meet face to face; neither giving way to let the other pass, nor taking a chance and pushing through; darting and lunging like a man and his re- flection, coordinated in endless coincidence . And even as the first man was saying all of this, so was the second man, making the coincidence of the doorway trap all the more complete . 9 Richard Hugo SNEOSDAL What a walk. First mile uphill. The road went rock to peat to mud. The final five hundred yards we floundered through lumpy swamp. Whatever weVe read in old novels, it's no fun to walk in heather, and we'd have to cut this wind in half to enjoy a kiss on the moor. We believe him worth it, the legend of this loch: each uisge, waterhorse. Hasn't he kept us in terror all our lives? This is where he lives, in this eerie black water tucked in behind the creag that rises like a bad past between our faces and all of the afternoon sun. We know his disguises: gentleman of the evening, sheep dog, normal horse. And we know he comes to our village for no reason other than to frighten what we used to call maidens or to kill the mayor we've never been organized enough to elect.
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